daylight breaking
by Absol Master
Summary: Oneshot. Home is where the heart is. Even if it's the ugliest place in the world. In a land hated by the rest of the world, he awaits the break of dawn. A thief's thoughts about his home, Kerning City.


Done on impulse. I suddenly got this exceedingly weird idea when I was going to sleep. Set in Kerning, by the way. This is really not a conventional fanfic, so I hope you enjoy this new style that I am trying out. Have fun. Here goes fanfic 61...

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† daylight breaking †

It's not much, really.

Every time I wake up, it's the same—the car engines my alarm clock, and the oceans of gas and smoke the very air that I breathe. Right from dawn, it's ugly, a horrible, disgusting land that no one from outside, I'm sure, would want to live in for all their lives.

The sunrises are marred by smoke and dirt, which flies up from factory chimneys. The only scenery that we have, the towering structures of skyscrapers and antennae, which make the skyline jagged, the clouds look like pincushions.

The sounds…where there might be the awe-inspiring calls of wild animals, there is only the raucous shriek of horns and railways, of machinery and of the grey and brown that is a part of everyone's lives.

Including mine. How long, …how long since I last saw true nature, true _wild _greenery, I am not sure. My eyes are now accustomed to the greyscale of the city, now readily taking in the smoke and colourless sunsets that take hold of every evening. How much I must be missing, I am sure. It's _ugly _here.

Everything needs cleansing, all the polluted streets and skies and waters. But even a century of scrubbing would never reverse the dirt and damage that has been inflicted, like wounds, upon the monuments of old, and on the "trees", those old, gnarled figures, like decrepit old men, reaching helplessly for some true light, not streetlight, if "trees" they can even be called.

Unbearable, you think…so unbearable, no bird flies; no animal even roams the streets, unless it is chained to a man's hand. The only sounds you hear are those produced by things not living, the voices of the few surviving leaves drowned out by the dreary voices of men.

Pure _insult _to nature. This is the land in which I have lived for years.

Sunset draws steadily on into night. Now, my real life begins. I am a thief, and thieves have to work at night, _only _at night. Life is ugly for us; we hide, steal, and throw our consciences against the wall when it pricks us. We ignore the teachings of _good_ and _true, _turning to crime and dishonesty to sustain our meager lives.

Worth it?

_Waiting atop the peak of a skyscraper for daylight. _

I have stolen what I need for the day. The skies, brown in smoke and in the city lights, cloud over my head like an endless blanket.

Home…home? Is this what I can call home? Is this life what I can call…_life? Truly?_

I'm as good as dead. It's only a matter of _when. _Is this even worth living for?

_Waiting on the roof, for the break of daylight. _

Before me, the rooftops are lit, half the windows still glowing with the light of those who will not stop working till they have earned what they need. Every streetlamp still a bright beacon for the travelers who use the roads, every street a row of orderly starlight.

_A painting, a painting…_The streets make a pattern. A pattern like a spiderweb, a huge web in which thousands, _millions _of humans are trapped. Me included.

But can I rightfully turn away from this land, my world, and say that it is not my home? It _is _ugly, horrible, smelly, dirty, hellish. But is has brought me up, watched me, held me every step of the way, as I grew up. Is that not a sign that it can give life?

_Dawn has broken. It lights up every street of the city, the windows, paints bright life over the windows and spires, fills the skies with sunshine. Simultaneously, the lights flicker to darkness, bowing down to a greater brightness overhead._

Everyone has a home, isn't that right? Home is where the heart is. For you, it might be a top-class condominium, or a hut on stilts, or a warm nest where your mother brought you up; a true place, rich or poor, which you can call your home, no matter what it looks like.

For all the smiles and tears I have shed, for all whom I have met and passed, for the place that brought _me_ up, the lights, the life, the excitement, this is where my heart lies.

It's not much, really. But it's my home. I don't care what others think of it; appearances mask reality.

I think it's _beautiful. _

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I need reviews. Thank you.


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